Convention
by TheValencia
Summary: When Sherlock and John enter a life-threatening manhunt, Sherlock's sister Layne abandons motherhood to follow her little brother into Moriarty's web.  Will they make it back to 221B?  Contains violent themes and John/OC
1. Prologue

"Have you got everything? Did you get his jumper?"

"Yes, for the last time. My dear sister, if you're so concerned about leaving your son in my care…"

"Mycroft, please don't start. I have no doubt you will make sure Max is taken care of, but it's a mother's concern. I've never left him alone for an hour, much less three months." Taking her duffle bag over her shoulder, Layne let out a lengthy sigh. The blades of her muscles were already clenched with an undisturbed tension. To be running off at this particular moment was unnecessarily complicating to the life of solitude she chose to enter. It had been nearly two and a half years since Layne accepted Mycroft's proposal of protective services. While life had infinitely slowed her former bouts of espionage, Layne never passed the opportunity to keep track of her younger brother's occurrences. She thought of her son's room, walls littered with the faces of two famous Londoners skulking around various crime scenes. She had missed them both, honestly. The last time she had spoken to the youngest Holmes sibling, she was recovering from giving birth. A nasty situation that led to John breaking his arm had also left her in labor in a molded basement. Her brother had reached her just in time. At the hospital, he was perched on the end of her bed, refusing contact with his nephew.

_"It might be the only time you get to hold him, you git."_

_ "Stop insulting me, I'm not good with…small people."_

_ "You're his uncle, and whether you do or not I would like him to believe you love him."_

_ "I lo-"_

_ "I'm leaving tomorrow, sweetheart. Mycroft's taking us out of here. I have no idea when either of us will see you again. Please…hold your nephew."_

And he did, for three hours until Mycroft sent Anthea to gather Layne and her possessions. As she hugged her brother one last time, she felt a wave of affection pass through his hands, allowing him to pat the small of her back.

Max now watched from the living room as Mycroft and Layne continued to chat in the hallway. Mycroft's house was a three story playpen as far as Max was concerned, but he was distracted by his mother's body language. From her locked position of her legs to the bend of lines on her brow, Max Avery Holmes was quite aware something was about to happen. Even while clutching his stuffed armadillo, he knew his mother was leaving him behind. Expelling a soft whine, she tucked back down into a crouching position.

Mycroft crossed his arms and lowered the tip of his chin towards his chest. Layne gave him a cross look and threw a small wave towards her child. Max stood to chase her, but she begged him to stop with the palm of her hand.

"Mommy will be home before you know it, sweet boy." Holding open the door, Mycroft showed her outside, but managed to snag the hem of her sleeve, cementing her steps.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Layne Holmes." Her crystalline eyes turned to fog as she ripped from his hold.

"He helped me when I needed him the most. He was there for the birth of my son and never questioned my moral judgment. Max's father is behind all of this, we both know that. Mycroft, I cannot leave him out there alone knowing I'm the reason he and Moriarty were introduced. I'm going to help Sherlock, and I won't return till he's safe."

With one last loving glance, Layne blew a kiss towards the living room. She briefly wondered if Mycroft would even honor her plans if something was to…she held his gaze in hopes that all the love she could possess for her son would pass through the stare. Max continued to stretch his neck and followed his mother's shadows as the door slammed in her wake.

Entering the black Mercedes Mycroft left waiting outside, she rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.

"221B Baker Street, London. Please."


	2. Sister

Continuing her walk up the street towards the familiar incline of steps, Layne felt herself soften. Before actually laying eyes on her destination, she had steeled her senses for the onslaught of emotions that were sure to follow. Her last stay at the 221B was chaotic to say the least. She could practically smell the tiles filled with pyloric acid from the kitchen, lean into the leather of the couch that wrinkled with little pressure, the fireplace that wreaked vaguely of old cigarette buds. It had been her home through most of her term with Max, and a haven of memories remained there. Stepping up to the door, she noticed the slight chipping around the hinges. _Must be new,_ she thought quietly. Raising a hand to knock, Layne retracted momentarily.

She could turn back. She could take the next cab that rolled up to the main drift and have Mycroft meet her with a new identity and be relocated with her son in less than 24 hours. Perhaps in the Americas? But no, she preferred someplace closer, especially since Sherlock had a tendency to die unexpectedly…

Before she could make a decision, the door opened on its own accord to reveal Mrs. Hudson with a cheeky grin. Before she could recognize her unexpected guest, Mrs. Hudson's gentleman caller appeared from the door, red around his neck. An awkward exchange of apologies followed, while Mr. Boulder (who had barely been introduced) retrieved Layne's rolling suitcase. Dropping her bag on the floor of the entrance, Mrs. Hudson still hadn't time to entirely recollect who the young woman was.

"Now dear, I haven't a room to rent at the moment. Rather odd, just showing up with everything, but let me fix you a cuppa. Honestly, young people just roaming in, asking to shack up, well you certainly picked the place, with those two upstairs…" Layne cracked a smile and gently took hold of Hudson's shoulder.

"Don' t put yourself into such a fret, Martha darling, I'll just be staying with my brother." Sudden clarity popped into Mrs. Hudson's features. Squealing delightfully, she threw her arms around Layne's tall features.

"Layne, my darling girl! Oh I haven't seen you in ages. Oh, oh my goodness well just go on upstairs. Or are you hungry? You're so skinny! Those Holmes genes, must be. Where's the baby? Didn't he come along? I was so upset I missed him last time…"

Layne laughed gently and guided Mrs. Hudson towards her own apartment, the Holmes woman keeping one lanky arm wrapped warmly around the landlady's shoulders.

"I know, we were terribly sorry to have missed you. Also, I hate to disappoint, but I'm afraid my baby isn't quite a baby anymore. He's two and a half, if you can believe. Spitting image of Sherlock, dark curls and all. Listen, I'll have to show you pictures in a bit, but I've got to catch up with the boys. Are they upstairs?"

Mrs. Hudson patted her cheek softly and looked up towards the ceiling.

"I'm afraid Sherlock went out for a bit, down to the morgue a few minutes ago. John's in, though, if you two would want a moment alone…Oh, Horace, just leave her bag there!" Turning back towards Layne, Mrs. Hudson fixed her gaze, "You know John didn't take too well to you leaving, if I remember. Practically heartsick at the time. You two were so…" Layne pressed a finger to Hudson's lips, not too dissimilar from when she silenced Max during one of his tantrums.

"Mrs. Hudson, I was six months pregnant when I showed up here. It wasn't exactly a time for romance. Now, I'll come see you in a bit, alright?" Mrs. Hudson threw her a soft glance and patted her back up the stairs.

Reaching the outside of the infamous flat, Layne chocked back a wave of nausea. So it was just John inside. She could see him barefoot, eating a biscuit and hen-pecking his keyboard, lightly drawing up another case for his blog. She had been tempted to see him after Sherlock's "suicide," lying awake at night and forming soft tears at the thought of his loneliness. She could remember sharing a bed with the doctor more than once during her stay, but always falling asleep on platonic words. Had she been a better person, had she not met him under the terms of an unplanned pregnancy, perhaps…

The door jolted open, revealing a very huffy John. He was still shrugging himself into his coat when he caught her eyes. Being just a couple inches shorter than her, he always exaggerated his stare up and into her sight. He looked for a moment that he might be sick. Instinctively he glanced at her stomach, almost cautiously before he realized how long it had been since their last encounter. Of course her bump had gone, along with the baby weight. Her hips were slender, barely curving out under her waistline. Her hair was laid down her shoulders, draping like crawling ivory over the nape of her breasts. It was dark, like Sherlock. Her eyes, Sherlock's. Everything was so similar to his flatmate's features, except for the smile…

"John," she whispered. Taking a step back, John straightened himself and stood aside, offering an arm wave inside. He licked his lower lip, then paused.

"Layne, my god, hello." Walking in, Layne was not surprised to see the features of the place remained the same. While it was obvious Sherlock was settling in his equipment again, it didn't seem that the dusty imprints of his microscopes had been wiped away. Depositing her bag by the desk, she took a seat on the sofa. John seemed cross momentarily, shaking his phone in the air.

"Sherlock wants me to meet him at a nearby café, fancy a coffee?"

"No," she stated honestly.

"Oh…" John mis-stepped several times before planting himself opposite Layne on the sofa. They stared at one another in complete concentration, before John's hands were unaware they were brushing the lines of Layne's fingernails. Clearing his throat quietly, he spoke.

"You look lovely. Simply, lovely. Well…"

"Thank you, John. You look quite well yourself." Changing his position, John nervously pointed at her stomach.

"So, where's the little guy? I mean, Sherlock told me what you named him I just can't remember—"

"Max. Max is at home. Max is fine. He's with Mycroft, actually. It'll be good for both of them." John nodded, then crinkled his forehead.

"So wait…why are you here?" Layne sighed and stretched her legs out, pressing both palms onto her thighs.

"Mycroft has been keeping me up to date on Sherlock's adventures since it was discovered he was not as deceased as he led all of us to believe. Which, I'm sorry for, by the way. I wanted to come visit you, but…I just didn't know if you would be accepting of the company."

John nodded in acceptance and motioned for her to continue.

"Look, I know what the two of you are planning. Round trip tickets, new luggage, new clothing…you're going after The Web. Well, you're not going alone." John stood quickly.

"Layne, no, you're a mother."

"I'm a sister."

"He can take care of himself!"

"Yes, because he did so well faking his death, that worked out lovely, didn't it?"

"He'll never allow it!"

"I do not need his permission, John Watson, I am his elder!"

"Well so am bloody I, but that hasn't stopped him!" Layne now held her stance tightly against John.

"Look, he would never been in this damn mess if it wasn't for me. Moriarty knew Sherlock because he knew me, and I host the responsibility of keeping my brother safe. I can't imagine how you felt watching him jump from that roof, but when Mycroft told me he was dead…John, my world fell from underneath me. It's all my fault. Sherlock, and you, protected me while I was having Max. You both gave me the chance to have a free life with my son, which I will forever be grateful for. Please, just let me have the chance to return the favor. Please." Her fingers were resting on his wounded shoulder, riding the length of his scar purposefully. Grabbing her hand, he left their embrace there. She leaned in to his head, resting against his hair. John breathed deeply, as if trying to hold to some restrain, some ability to tell her no.

"We're leaving in the morning, you know."

"I know."

"We'll be gone two months."

"I've made arrangements for Max for three, in case we're detained." John locked his jaw, then exhaled.

"Layne…we might not even come back. Do you realize this?" Brushing her fingers over his, she smiled softly.

"I've taken care of those issues, as well. I've settled all debts and I'm ready to go. All that's left is to tell Sherlock." But before John could respond, Layne separated from their strange embrace and stared at the door, petrified. John looked questioningly before hearing the ramblings coming up the hall.

"…honestly, John, I told you thirty minutes ago…wait, she's?" Smacking open the door, Sherlock took in the room before finding Layne, who maneuvered herself into his line of vision. While she fought off tears (_he's not dead, Layne, calm_) Sherlock's face seemed to falter ungracefully. He knew her intentions immediately and portrayed disgust laced with concern, but only Layne seemed to catch the recognition of sadness. So he had missed her. Gripping his collar, Sherlock moved closer to his sister.

"Layne…you can't go."

"It's already decided, Sherlock. Now give me a hug."

"You're not coming, you ridiculous girl—"

"I am your older sister and I am here to protect you. Now man up and give me a hug before I lose my mind staring at you!" John watched with uncertainty as Sherlock forced his arms open, barely allowing them to cross over her back. Layne leaned into the embrace and whispered to the side of Sherlock's head.

"I blamed myself…for you…I still do."

"Layne, honestly, my life is always in danger. You did nothing—"

"He found you because of me."

"He was already searching for me, you just happened to be…convenient. Moriarty was not your fault, he was already in existence." Layne released Sherlock from the struggle of affection and wiped a hand over the curls watering his forehead.

"Still, I'm here. So, we leave in the morning John said?" Sherlock nodded, moved over her shoulder, barely touching the side of her face.

"I am as alive, Laney, as the last time you saw me. Please, don't cry."

Layne stopped immediately, giving her brother one last brush on the cheek. The three of them remained standing in the living room for a few minutes, mentally resorting their plans for flight. After a moment, John went to put the kettle on. Sherlock settled down in his chair by the fire. Layne picked up her phone from the desk and gently dialed Mycroft's number. She heard giggling on the answer and Mycroft instructing Max _talk to Mummy._

"Hello, sweetheart! Mummy's just fine. I'm sitting with your Uncle Sherlock. How are you, my angel? Being good? Yes, well that sounds exciting. Oh, my heart, I love you, too…"


	3. Sentiment

Stepping off of the plane, Layne felt the heat from the tarmac slap across her face. Sherlock was the only one of the trio seemingly not bothered by the soggy summer weather. Keeping his collar turned up tight, he trudged forward towards the airport terminal. They had left London at four in the morning, hoping the early booking would keep any wandering eyes from Sherlock's survival. At the time of departure, Layne was still unsure of their destination before John leaned over and casually explained they were headed to Florence. Carrying a cup of ice from the journey, Layne now placed a cube against the back of her neck, offering John one in return.

"So, Italy, lovely. You failed to mentioned it would be an inferno, thank you." Layne leaned against the side of the building, hoping Sherlock paid attention to her burning sarcasm.

"When I said all weather apparel..."

"You said that to John, Sherlock. You told me to piss off back home."

"Well, all the more reason for you to go if the heat will be a bother." Standing up, she punched Sherlock lightly.

"Stop being an ass and tell me why we're here." Crossing his arms, he nodded towards a small cab approaching.

"We're not in an appropriate setting to discuss all the details. John, help Layne with the luggage!" Popping his head up in obedience, John barely muttered defiance as he loaded their belongings into the back of their ride.

The Hotel Balestri was charmingly Italian with laces of Baker Street crawling through its interior. The mustard color walls made Layne queasy for a moment, but soon settled as she found that the air conditioning made up for whatever aesthetic lacking she found. Sherlock ordered two rooms in smooth dialect and sat by the villa, patiently waiting for their escort. Layne took the seat opposite of her brother, noticing the small lines that had began to show around his mouth. How old was he, anyways? She barely kept up with her own birthdays, not feeling her 36 years. Quickly totaling, she calculated Sherlock was just 29; a baby to her. Catching her glare, Sherlock read her immediately.

"I'm not a child, Layne. And honestly, a few laugh lines aren't going to kill me." She laughed lightly and ordered a glass of wine from one of the passing kitchen girls.

"You're too young to have lines at all, Sherlock. You need to take better care of yourself. At the rate you're going, you'll look ancient by the time you're my age. Which, now that I say it, I do feel old…" Her eyes wandered over to John who was bracing his back against the porch doors, looking mildly interested in the agriculture. John was 38, she remembered, and by the fine traces of grey lining the crease of his neck, she noticed age was catching up on him as well. Sherlock caught her glimpse and placed a shy hand on Layne's knee.

"You're not old, Laney, not just yet. You're just feeling the fatigues of motherhood, I assure you. Give a couple weeks with me and you'll be back to your normal self." Raising her eyebrows, Layne placed a careful thumb over Sherlock's hand.

"Why are you only like this with me, sweetheart?" Sherlock looked confused.

"Like what?"

"This," Layne said, pointing at her knee, "Holding my hand, calling me Laney, showing your kindness. You haven't been this way towards me since you were a child! I'm not complaining, but it does worry me, Sherlock, this soft exterior. It makes me think you're hiding something." Quickly removing their contact, Sherlock regained his stiff composure.

"I don't know, Layne. I find it bothersome, I can assure you. Call it sentiment, but when I look at you, I remember everything that was good about my childhood. I forget sometimes how you left college to raise me and how distant I was from Mycroft. And then I think about when you had Max, and the fact that you came out here for me. I'm…rambling, and I'm not one to just talk like an idiot-"

"Well, not on purpose," Layne chuckled, only to be caught in Sherlock's dark glare.

"I did miss you, Layne. I missed you more than I like to let on because I'm not pleased with myself for enjoying the fact you abandoned your son to come rescue me. So yes, I tend to lapse back into a child-like state because…"

"You're my Sherlock," she stated with a smile. He barely nodded, but it was enough to allow Layne to stand and place a quick kiss to his forehead.

"I've fought for you my entire life, my love, it's not going to end here." John meekly walked over, obviously unwilling to break any small exchange between the siblings. However, their chauffer had returned with their keys and items loaded to be taken to their rooms.

Upon reaching their rooms, Layne could only shake her head at Sherlock's expense. He had rented (indefinitely) the Superior for himself and the Superior Vista for Layne and John, which led to a short-lived argument.

_"Oi, why can I just bunk up with you?"_

_ "Because you talk, John. Layne has assured me it's no bother on her part."_

_ "Well it's bloody awkward…"_

_ "Oh, stop complaining, I gave you the better room."_

Unpacking quickly, Layne leaned over her balcony, wondering whether or not to light a cigarette. Before she reached for her menthols, Sherlock ushered her into his room, where John was already tapping his foot impatiently. Layne softly sat on the edge of the bed, looking between the two men. It was clear words had already been exchanged, and John was far from pleased with the result. Layne crossed her legs and rubbed a hand down her calves. Someone needed to make the first move.

"Well," John huffed, "Are you going to tell her or shall I?" Sherlock peered over to Layne and sighed.

"I may have under exaggerated our obstacles." Layne gave a quizzical look then allowed him to continue.

"I told John our main goal was to infiltrate Moriarty's Web, which suggests that the threads remained intact thus far. However, while I was on a sabbatical, I passed the time by removing four of the five main heads."

"So there's one man left?" asked Layne

"Yes," replied Sherlock, moving his foot over the wrinkles of the carpet, "Sebastian Moran, ex-colonel in the British army, sniper. He keeps a home about ten miles from here he calls The Lampila. He rarely frequents the place, but decided unexpectedly to stay for a few months." John rolled his eyes and shook his head. Sherlock ignored his friend's exasperated response and waited to Layne to speak.

"So you said under exaggeration…wait. Sherlock, why are we here if you knew only Moran was left? You could easily take care of this yourself. I know Seb, I met him several times when I was with James…"

"Jim," Sherlock corrected.

"Right, and he can barely keep his head on. He's a sharp shooter, no more than that. So you tell me right the hell _now_, Sherlock Holmes, what have you done to get us in a mess?" He looked mildly upset at his sister's accusations, raising his chin.

"Nothing. I did have this under control, you know, and then you swooped in bring a handful of minor complications…"

"Sherlock…"

"I saw him today, as we were leaving the airport. He's aware we are in town. He's been waiting for us to arrive since he notified me several days ago of his survival. Obviously, he expected you would follow after me. Your matronly worries do nothing for my image."

"I swear to bloody Christ!"

"Moriarty is here, Layne. He's in Florence, alive, and he's made it clear his intentions of contact." Layne caught her breath painfully in the back of her throat. She kept a fixed eye on Sherlock, watching the bouts of desperation over his features. John stood still, working nervously to keep his disgust at bay.

"So," breathed Layne, "Naturally, he wants to see me." John and Sherlock locked eyes and turned from one another. Settling himself by door, she watched John fumble towards a shelf, extracting a letter. He carefully handed it to her, pausing momentarily in their trade as if to warn her it would be hard to swallow. Sherlock's fingers her pinned into a steeple, concentration masking the self-ridicule he was putting himself through. As she opened it, Layne felt hot tears burn the dry edges of her cheeks.

"I received the note two days before you showed up at Baker. I had hoped John and I would fly out and swiftly take care of the issue, but you've played right into his hands. Moriarty knew all he had to do was whistle danger and you'd give up all secrecy to protect me from danger. Sentiment."

Sherlock breathed heavily and watched as Layne's hands barely scraped the edges of the envelope, trying to still the words on the page. She had expected this day, locked it away in the back of her mind. Kneeling down in front of her, Sherlock placed both hands on either side of her frame.

" He doesn't want to see you Layne. He wants to see Max," Sherlock clarified. Layne nodded slowly.

"Of course…sentiment…he wants to see his son."


	4. Sex

Their first night in Florence, John refused to share a bed. Layne watched unenthusiastically as he pillaged the closet for extra blankets and made a small sleeping bundle.

"I don't even understand," she huffed, "We've slept together before!" John immediately turned around, mouth agape.

"We never…no…we didn't sleep together. We shared a bed."

"Yes. And that's what I'm offering now."

"Are you and Sherlock just blatantly unaware of social practices? You're the lady, you take the bed. I act as the respectful, soft-hearted gentleman and take the floor without expectations of friendly payment." Layne respectfully pivoted her body as she peeled off the day's clothing, unhooking her bra swiftly and replacing it with a loose blue camisole. John was standing in his boxers, but still felt a blush rise to his cheeks when he saw that Layne herself was only wearing tangerine panties under her top. Sliding her legs under the covers, she gave him a quick salute and turned off the light.

John twisted uncomfortably for a good five minutes, before settling a pillow underneath his shoulder. It was very rare that it gave him much trouble, but as posh as the carpeting was, it was still no substitute for a mattress. Trying to turn on his side, a low grunt fell out the side of his mouth, instantly making him furious at Sherlock's stubbornness. _Not like he even sleeps…_

Layne could tell immediately that John would be having issues with his posture. She wondered if he would stop her if she tried to crawl onto his level, support his scarred muscles with her own hands. She'd hold his arm all night if he asked. Instead, without turning over, she threw back the covers on the opposite side of the bed.

"John, for fuck sakes, get in." He barely hesitated, slowly standing to only hold at the side, left hand clutching the edge of the covers. For all her unnatural patience (for a Holmes, that is), she grew frustrated as the backs of her legs chilled. She finally rolled over to see what the fuss was, only to catch him staring at her underwear. He looked…alarmed.

"I can put some trousers on if it bothers you that much," she kindly worded.

"No, it's fine, let me just…are you sure?" With no more energy to argue, she grabbed John by the collar of his undershirt and pulled him-on top of her. He lay there, staring down her neck, too nervous to shift his position. Layne adjusted her arms underneath his own, flipping him onto his side, where she kept her hold. He continued looking at her, as if she were brittle. Feeling the exit scar riding high upon his shoulder blade, she brushed it with her fingernails.

"Where does it hurt the most? The front or back?" He looked confused, then became aware of her touch.

"Oh, um…it's more of a joint thing. It's just all over. Not usually this upsetting, mind you…" he looked thoughtful for a moment and whispered out loud what he rarely spoke to himself, "It'll never fully heal."

Layne nodded her head once, gripped his shoulder with her hands, kneading and pressing all the distinct points of muscle and ligaments. John closed his mouth, breathing uncomfortably through his nose for a few moments. It was awkward and intimidating, to be touched by someone he'd sat with a handful of times. Layne was everything and nothing of Sherlock Holmes. Her profile was similar to Mycroft's, but the lean, sleek bones of her cheeks gave her a lovely shadow. Looking at Layne, he knew right away he had projected his thoughts too loudly. She stopped massaging and gave him a passive stare.

"Is that enough? Feel better?"

"Yes…yes, t-thank you."

He thought she would roll back over, facing the balcony, keeping her body pin straight so as to not let her curves fit into his. Instead, she tucked her elbow under her head and kept looking at (or was it past?) him. For the first time he saw how tired she was, how far away her heart was from the investigation. Obviously she was worried about Moriarty's message, but there was something else. He didn't press her, just continued staring back and waiting for her to speak.

"If I tell you something, will you tell me something in return?" she asked.

"A secret?"

"Anything, I don't care."

"Okay, you first."

Layne steadied herself, then spoke.

"When I first found out I was pregnant, I didn't want to have my baby." John nodded understandingly. It was his turn.

"When I first met you, I wished you weren't pregnant." The information startled Layne, but refused to pass judgment. Her thoughts just seemed to pour out of her mouth, followed by one of his in return.

"I once punched Sherlock in the face when I found him strung out in my bathroom. He was sixteen…"

"I spilled one of his experiments down the sink, which ate up the pipes, then blamed it on Mrs. Hudson."

"When Max calls me 'Mummy' it makes me want to throw up. That's what we used to call our mother. I just want to be 'Mom.'"

"I shot a man the first day I knew Sherlock. And I didn't care. I still don't care."

"I resent Mycroft for refusing to help me raise Sherlock. I begged him to take him for just a little bit. I was a few weeks away from my degree…I never finished."

"Those nights, when you used to come up to my room and lay next to me, I would pretend you were my wife. I'd imagine Max was mine, you were mine, and in a few months we'd be just another normal family bowling around London."

Layne felt tears brew at the corner of her eyes and blew a laugh. She hurriedly placed the back of her hand against John's face, inhaling.

"Jim and I…we were never officially together. I told Sherlock I dated him, because had he known what happened he would've gone after Moriarty alone." John now crinkled his forehead in frustration.

"I don't understand. When you came to Baker you said you were involved with…"

"Yes, I did. Because it's just easier to say than…well—than, 'He raped me.'" John sat up in bed, his fists making strange heavy balls, before easing back down. The rage underneath his military façade brewed, but stayed capped. Layne moved her fingers into John's stiff hair, speaking.

"He wasn't a bad man at first, but they very rarely are, I suppose. We met through a mutual connection in Hong Kong. I was hired out for a rather unsavory job, and Moriarty was the man behind the action. He sought me out. He paid me two million dollars to kill a man and I did just that. Three nights later, we went to dinner. Four weeks later, we had sex. Six months, we shared a flat. It was, casual, but never dull. Jim Moriarty is not a dull man, that is to say. He was looking through my phone one day, found Sherlock's number. He became obsessed with the idea of meeting my little genius. And of course, as the proud fucking mother hen I am, I told him everything. I made sure he knew Sherlock was goddamn brilliant. Mycroft may have told Jim Sherlock's life story, but I gave Moriarty something even worse; I gave him Sherlock's mind. Soon I realized his intentions, and decided to leave." Layne's voice hitched onto a hint of exasperation. John kept boring into her, his eyes so translucent with regrettable curiosity she couldn't help but finish. As she started her story, she smelled the sandalwood cologne on the back of Jim's collar…

"_And where are you going all pretty like that?" Layne kept her legs crossed and barely moved from the couch. She left Moriarty's question hanging in the air, finishing her glass of wine and slipping on her heels. Without a doubt he had seen her luggage piled beside the door. _

"_For someone who is so disgustingly nosy, I assumed you would know." There was a throaty growl from his short frame, his head keeping a slight weaving pattern as he stared at her. Unfortunately so, Layne felt a pang of sorrow as she remembered their last night in bed. He was incredibly dead as a human, but he knew her body better than anyone else. It was a game, as most of life was, to him. He enjoyed the pleasure of finding a pulse behind his thrusting, and the guttural responses she would give him in return. It was sick sex, but she loved it. Her life was better and worse for knowing Jim Moriarty, but she knew with certainty that it was not worth sacrificing Sherlock any further._

"_Layne Holmes, the assassin with a conscious. Now that's a story I'm sure won't linger in history." Crossing over to her, Moriarty snaked an arm over her shoulder, letting it crawl down the length of her chest and cup her breast. She shivered reluctantly and pulled his hand away._

"_You've been a huge mistake. A fun one, but a mistake nonetheless. Stay the fuck away from my brothers, or I will make sure you are dead within the month." As she moved towards the doors, Moriarty's eyes widened as he clapped his hands with a strange sort of glee._

"_OH, this is about the virgin! Come now, Layne, he's just a hobby." She faced him with a frightening fury, pointing a deadly finger at his chest._

"_You've been playing him for months! And I had no idea. The cabbie, the fucking Black Lotus! You have followed him for years, you bastard! I found Carl's shoes. You are—is that why you hired me? Hmm? Fuck me to fuck up my brother?" Jim merely raised his eyebrows at her exclamation._

"_Fuck you? No, no, no, no you idiot. I owned you. I still own you. I've tagged you every night this week without complaint. True, in the beginning ordering up the infamous Holmes sister was just a ploy to get a little under Sherly's skin. But you…you are so much fun. And since your brother got a pet I thought I'd invest in one. But you're not an animal, unfortunately. You're just a hole, but a fun one to crawl in I'll give you that." Now inches apart, Layne felt his breath run over her face. Without giving any thought to her situation, she spit between his eyes._

_She knew immediately she'd made a mistake._

_Turning to run in the opposite direction, Jim grabbed her ponytail, throwing her to the ground. She'd fought many people in her time, never rethinking a maneuver. But looking into his black eyes, she felt paralyzed. It was there all along, his plan. And even as he forced her thighs apart with a rough leg, she couldn't bring herself to move. He held her arms down with one hand, running the other over the band of her underwear. Her dress was off before she knew what to do. With a sudden consciousness, she rammed one of her heels into the soft spot of his calf. Bucking up, he reached for a nearby ashtray, knocking her several times across the face. She felt loose teeth barely clinging to their roots, the back of her throat closed up with blood. Ignoring her state, he kissed her roughly, wiping the crimson from the corner of his mouth. He was on top of her in moments. Positioning himself, he gripped her broken chin with one hand._

"_When I say scream, you'll obey."_

_When she woke up, she found the place empty of his belongings. Lying there for several hours, she groped long enough to find her clothes, only to press it against the growing puddle of blood between her legs. Finally gathering herself into the shower, Layne sat down and cried till the water ran cold. _

Holding Layne's chin with one hand, John chased a large teardrop with a calloused thumb. Their entire relationship, he realized, had been built on these small touches. Layne's eyes remained glassy, but she cleared her throat once more.

"I found out I was pregnant six weeks later. I let myself go until Mycroft had me tracked down. He managed to get me into a private hospital, where I apparently hadn't been doing too well. I spent two weeks there. He asked me, once, why I just hadn't got rid of it. And the honest answer was I just tried not to think about it. Which sounds stupid, at five months pregnant how can you just ignore something like that, but I did." John remained silent but a moment, then paused.

"So, does Max know about his dad? I mean, does it bother you? Well obviously it does, but…"

"He's my baby. I love him more than anything in the world. His father is irrelevant. But no, he doesn't know who his father is. When he asks, I just say it's a surprise. He's young enough that that trick still seems to work. But how do you tell your child something like that? Do ever wonder why us Holmes children are the way we are? We were unwanted. We were just part of an arranged marriage. Sherlock, bless him, was the worst. Our mother constantly told him how he was the last thing she needed in her life. She loved all of us, but we were too much. I don't want Max to ever hear me say that he is the result of one man beating his mother into submission. He might not have been born into love, but he is loved regardless."

At that moment, John decided he had never loved anyone more. Realizing that after quite a long confession, it was his turn to tell her a secret. He understood how emotional appeals were ineffective on Sherlock, and perhaps Layne at one point. But she had softened, and grew warm, but was still fiercely sharp. Breathing heavily through his nose, John looked deep into her frame, and began:

"After you had Max, and you'd left, I didn't touch your side of my bed for months. I still don't let anyone else near it. And every night after, I imagined you settling into all your fussy mothering routines. I wondered if you needed help putting the baby to sleep or if you were getting enough rest through the night. Sherlock used to get pictures of Max in the mail, from Mycroft. I would stare at them, just trying to find all the little features in his face that were you. And one day I woke up and decided that if, by rare chance, you ever showed up at Baker Street again, I would tell you something. I would tell you, Layne Holmes, that I love you more than anyone on this bloody great earth. And I would love your son, no matter whose he was. And you could be whoever you decided you wanted to be, and wear whatever you wanted to sleep in, and eat whatever you wanted to eat, and I'd still be there to love you the next day. So…there. Ta."

Shaking with feelings, Layne ran her hand over John's blonde cropped head. She could feel his heartbeat pulse through the skin behind his ears. The best man she'd ever known would obviously want the worst woman who walked the earth. As disgusted as she was with her life, John loved her. More importantly, he loved Max. And to this soldier, her history had no more importance than her shoe size.

"John…I completely love you."

John snorted, "No, you don't."

"Yes—yes I do. I do love you, but you are worth so much more than me." Giving her a gentle shove he laughed.

"You mad cow, come here." Reaching towards her face, Layne let one of her legs slip over his. Kissing soundly, John's hands swarmed underneath her shirt, while her fingernails no longer delicately traced the lines of old scars, but left moon-crest imprints in the small of his back. Breaking apart briefly, they started thinking.

"Layne."

"Yes?"

"I really, really hate your orange pants." She laughed lightly, peeling them down to her knees.

"Well, if you can get them off with your teeth, I'll make sure to never wear them again." With face-breaking smiles they both laughed as John darted underneath the cover. Layne laid back, one hand tunneling into her pillow as she allowed herself, for one moment, to stop worrying about whoever else was alive outside the room.

From one room over, Sherlock's ear had practically glued itself to the wallpaper. Desperately trying to control his emotions, thirteen levels of disgust ran through his stomach. With a surly stare, he briefly thought about running next door to break up…whatever was happening between the two of them. Instead, he stretched out on his stomach, his frame consuming the entire bed.

"Bloody John Watson, snogging my sister."


	5. Sussing

"_Sherlock!" Layne screamed as she tried to brace her back against the wall. Feeling the smallest trail of blood run down her legs, she collapsed into an awkward crouch. The base of her back throbbed under numerous amounts of pressure, but nothing compared to the aggravated ripples that shuddered from the large curve of her stomach all the way down to her pelvis. It was an unfortunate turn of events to find herself in labor in the abandoned cellar of a cement factory, but after twelve hours of suffering completely alone, the pain was now too intense to hold much longer. She had heard her brother rushing around the floor above her, the proud click of his heels alerting her. Layne threw a nearby brick against the long barricaded door in hopes of sending some sort of signal. It worked, but she was far from relieved. As she listened to the picking of locks, an incredible pressure settled deep in her core. _

"_Layne! Thank—what the hell?" Layne was now on her knees, struggling to remove the long wet sweat pants that she had borrowed from John the day before. Tears dared to leave her eyes as she held out both hands to Sherlock._

"_Come—here—let me—get—up." Her breathing was unsteady and bold. The shakiness of her limbs had Sherlock lying her back immediately, taking off his jacket as he bundled it up behind her, supporting her lower vertebrae. Holding up two hands as if to warn her, he slowly pulled her trousers off and threw them aside. With as much gentlemanly couth as he could allow her, Layne cringed as he placed a hand just above her pubic bone and pressed down. _

"_The head is descending. Think you could have chosen a less dramatic entrance for your child?" Layne went to hit him, but was surprised by how little strength she had in her arms._

"_Shut—up—AH!—Sherlock, h-help me." He grabbed one of her hands tightly, warming her fingers between his gloves. Helping her position her legs, he gave her an apologetic look before focusing on the task at hand._

"_Okay, when I say push, you have to do just that, okay?" She shook her head no, sobbing too loudly for her own pride._

"_Sherlo—Oh God!—please, please help me."_

"_I'm trying to, Layne. You've got to pay attention to me." _

"_It h-hurts, so m-m-much!" Her chest heaved unnaturally, and fearing she'd hyperventilate, Sherlock moved behind her, bracing her back against his torso. Leaning closely to her ear, his arms wrapped around her comfortably, joining hands once more._

"_Listen to me, listen to me, okay? Layne? Breathe along with me, follow my patterns. I can't stay here, I need to be on the opposite end of things to be of any use. For the first bit, I'll stay as close as I can. But you've got to listen to me, for both your sakes, alright? Now, on your next contraction, bear down. It's not going to be comfortable, but I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere." _

_Layne felt feverish, with a sticky cold clinging to her skin. Sherlock's hand went to her forehead, lingering as he gently curled her body forward. _

"_Ready?" he asked. She could barely nod. With the next harsh pain, Layne cried through her clenched teeth as she clamped down on Sherlock's leather-clad fists. His own body tried to help her stop shaking as his voice urged her to focus all her strength down. Soon the contraction ended and she nestled back into his chest. Taking her pulse, he leaned over her shoulder trying to catch a glimpse at the progress. _

"_Layne, once more then I have to move." She shook her head in disagreement, curling her fingers into the dusty collar of his shirt._

"_D-don't leave me here." He rocked her slightly, shaking his head._

"_No, I will not leave you. I'm just going to move. Can you try to push again?" Too tired to argue, Layne felt the fibers of her throat burn as she screamed. Everything was too much to process._

"_AAH! Sherlock, no! P-please, h-help…" He carefully lifted her up and leaned her against the wall, ignoring her complaints. Moving between her legs, he could see the barest hints of a head._

"_Layne, right now, push."_

"_N-no…"_

"_RIGHT now, Layne! Listen to me!"_

"_Where's John? W-we…he promised…" _

_Sherlock could barely keep up with her mumblings, only fearing his sister's lack of focus. Placing his palm on top of her foot, he wrangled back her attention._

"_I know it hurts. And I know this isn't how you planned it, but it is what's happening. I can only help you by telling you what you need to do, and right now that's to gather your senses, stop playing this up, and push down. Right now, Layne." _

_Slightly angry by his harshness, Layne nodded once and closed her eyes. Filling her stomach with one breath, she pushed until she was sure the blood in her head would spill out her eyes. The pain grew in strength, until she heard Sherlock announce the head was delivered. An even worse feeling came over her as she felt her skin give under the pressure._

"_GOD! Sherlock, oh my god, w-what…"_

"_I know, Layne. You've—torn—a bit. We'll get that sorted later. I need two more decent pushes and you'll be done." _

_The minutes dragged on until she lost her vision to fat sweat drops cruising down her forehead. All she had left was the sense of being ripped apart and Sherlock's voice gently coaching her on. Finally, after what seemed like the worst of the moment, the shoulders were exposed and the rest of her son smoothly arrived. Relaxing back on Sherlock's coat, Layne took in gulping gasps. She still harbored a deep throbbing, but nothing compared to what she'd just went through. A dull weight settled on her stomach, only for her to look up and see the charcoal eyes of who was to be Maxwell Chesterson Holmes. _

_Layne ran her pinky over his sticky cheek as she watched Sherlock tie off the umbilical cord. Finally finishing what he considered to be a decent job, he made his way to his sister's side, looking his nephew over._

"_It seems he has all his appendages. Congratulations." His smirk was filled with anxiety and laughter as he took the sleeve of his blazer to clean off Layne's face. Her arm looped over his, bringing him as close to her face as possible._

"_I love you, Sherlock. So, so much. Thank you." Rarely was her brother left without a speech, but all he could muster in return was a shy nod. Returning her focus to her child, Layne lightly gripped Max's toes, running them over her fingernails. He was immediately worth whatever sacrifice it took to get him here. She felt nothing of Moriarty in the soft tufts of his black hair, nor in the relaxed curve of his small lips. Max was perfect and just what she needed. Sherlock stood up at the sound of sirens in the distance._

"_Will you be okay while I flag them down?"_

_Layne smiled, "Oh yes. I think we will be absolutely fine."  
><em> 

Layne reclined in bed, one hand in the crook of John's thigh as she remembered the night her son was born. The duvet was completely stripped from their bed after the evening's exertion, but she did find a cool corner of the sheets to drape across her waist.

Having Max had been, up to that point, the hardest accomplishment she'd ever had in life. Now she debated that fact as she tried to conjure up a plan to explain to Sherlock why she was now, in fact, fucking John Watson.

There were a number of excuses she knew Sherlock would reluctantly accept, but acceptance alone wasn't enough. Their lives had been lonely ones, and he was unwilling to put any faith in romantic attachments. Layne had never found herself desperate for companionship, but after waking up to John's creased forehead sleepily resting against her breast, she had to admit it was nice.

John's lips gave a soft huff before he awoke, one hand wiping the sleep from his eyes. Upon seeing Layne perched on her pillows, he apparently shared her sentiment. He stretched his toes and continued to drape his head over her stomach. He found a scar on the jut of her right hip bone and began gently polishing it with his finger.

"Your brother is going to fucking kill me." Layne only nodded lightly in reply, then leaned down to kiss his nose.

"Perhaps, but if it helps, I'm currently trying to conjure up a Holmesian plan to get us out of this."

"Well, let me know how that goes, I'm going to get a shower." Flipping himself rather awkwardly out of the bed, he looked back at Layne, her long limbs almost consuming the mattress.

"Last night," he stated, "It was—well, it could just be a one off, you know. It was great, fine—no, great, but I mean, if you're not looking for anything. It just seems like a strange time to start something. I mean, we are chasing a murderer through Florenc.! Are you sure you want to—you know- keep shagging me?"

Layne raised her eyebrows, trying to shut off any intimate features her face cradled only a few minutes ago. The flowery vision she had imagined between herself and John from last night was trickling out of view. Now very self conscious of her nudity, she groped the ground beside her for some article of clothing.

"No, Doctor Watson, I do not want to, as you said, keep shagging you. I—shit—I think we had different ideas as to what we wanted out of whatever this is." Finding what was surely his jumper, Layne couldn't bring herself to care as she pulled on a pair of underwear and swept her hair from out of the collar of his sweater.

"What does that mean?" John was riddled with confusion as he tried to move in front of the door, her destination. With a stubborn scowl, he darted around his shorter frame and headed for the hallway.

"It means I will be bunking with my brother for the remainder of the trip, and I suggest that you treasure your conquest. Congratulations John, you got to fuck me. You must feel very, very accomplished. Take a shower, then get the fuck out so I can gather my belongings."

Before he could do anything, she had slammed their room shut behind her, only hearing the tail end of what sounded like her name being hoarsely shouted. Moving two doors down, she crept along the dim hallway, hoping no one would see her without trousers, sporting a very unseemly pair of grey knickers. Without knocking, she immediately ran through the entrance and pounced into Sherlock's bed. Her brother had his legs coolly crossed on top of the covers, and was slightly rustled as she jerked the comforter from underneath his frame. Layne buried herself deep inside the fabrics and turned away from him.

"So, I take it the morning after did not go as planned?" His smug tone made her want to punch him in the throat, but all she could muster was a sad whine.

"Motherhood has made me soft, Sherlock. I went too far last night." She felt the side of the bed rise as Sherlock made towards the window, hands tightened behind his back.

"Yes, well, hardly matters now. What you should be concerned about is the fact that we are meeting Moriarty. Tonight." Layne felt her heart move sideways. Sitting up slowly, she stared a hole through his tall frame.

"Sherlock, what did you do?" He sighed in frustration and began striding back and forth like a disturbed stallion.

"A letter was delivered to my door this morning. We shall meet him at 9 o'clock, on Sebastian's property. If all goes as planned, it will be quite an eventful gathering."

Forcing her head onto her knees, Layne finally felt too exhausted to argue. She knew Sherlock's eyes were roaming over her exterior, trying to extract any information that he could use to persuade her to do as told. Instead, he wavered and collapsed into the nearest chair.

"You should have told me about what happened, Laynie." Pulling her head up, she immediately regretted seeing her brother so disappointed.

"So I take it you heard John and mine's conversation "  
>"Yes, I did."<p>

"And are you okay now?" Sherlock immediately stood, looking as dignified as his horrified expression could allow.

"I'm_ fine_, you idiot. Why didn't you tell me you were—it matters." Layne joined her brother's side.

"No, it really doesn't. It might have three years ago, but not anymore. What's done is done, and I didn't want you resenting Max every time you saw him. I kept it to myself because it was a very private, personal, painful experience and I overcame it. Alone. It wasn't your business, Sherlock. I know you don't want hear that, but it's the truth. This is just a normal human reaction. I was attacked. It hurt, but I'm alive. And out of everything I ended up with a beautiful son! What could have made such a horrible predicament worthwhile but my Max?"

Sherlock knew her smile was genuine, but he still felt rather sickly. It was a game changer, this information, and it gave Moriarty the upper hand. Nodding once, he turned away from her, lost in thought once more. Layne had lived a rather precarious life, but he had never wished her harm on any of her excursions. He knew she had taken lovers on her journeys, and only bits of him were upset, and only because none of them appreciated her as needed.

Layne sat back on the mattress, her legs crossed and cold. Finally, she spoke.

"Well, one of us needs to let John know of the plan. I vote you."

"Oh, hell, are you really going to resent him? Now is not the time to get distracted. Go and apologize to him, or let him do the groveling. Either way, from what I heard, the lack of communication between the two of you led to a disgustingly simple mistake. Fix this, and focus on your son. If something happens to us tonight, Moriarty will surely turn his attention towards Max."

Layne froze her mind, keeping her quiet panic swallowed by her indifference towards surviving. She'd die for Max, she'd let Moriarty wear her to a thin thread if that's what he needed to stay away from their son. Sherlock was right, and so was John. Now was not the time to get involved in another romantic entanglement.

"I'll go get John and put on some proper clothes. I'm telling you now, Sherlock, if he asks for me in trade of Max's security, I'll accept that."

"I know you will, but I won't. Get out. Now."


End file.
